Like Daughter, Like Mother: Ia and the Sphere
by Late to the Party
Summary: Faerun, a Dyson Sphere, orbits the sun. Everything is bigger, much bigger, but for Ia, life is as she knows it. What she doesn't know is her mother, her father, or indeed, anything of practical use. Mega-corporations rule the trade routes and she's just a tiny fish in a gigantic ocean. Or is she? Pre-EE. Written 11-05-18. 'Semi'-complete (it's at an ending point; may return to it)
1. 1

1\. Prologue

Legend stated that the Sphere was formed when the gods turned the world inside out. Other, older texts maintained that the Sphere was partially constructed by those in ancient Netheril, whose magic knew no bounds. There Sphere was the world and the world was the Sphere, and the sun blazed in the epicentre of the sky, encompassed by the Sphere. Ia snapped the tome shut with as much force as she'd intended, sending a resounding echo through the dusty halls and earnt her several disapproving glares. With a slight sniff, she lifted her delicately tipped nose, lifted herself from the shoulders, and turning her head, half sauntered, half slithered away, each little sway of her hips matched by her shoulders, each half step painstakingly slow. Her knees locked in by the sheer dress felt more like a burial shroud than a garment for daily living. Her shawl served as a cowl which at least allowed her to fit in a little better with the other monks in their hooded robes.

Between the long rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves, all but overflowing with books, Ia found her one solace: a window. Shuffling over to it, she gazed through the narrow stone slit and out onto the vast, seemingly endless forest of Cloakwood. It stretched so far that it might have been a sea unto itself, its colossal columns and giant limbs marching across such huge swathes that she knew were she to venture in for more than ten minutes, she would become horribly lost. Were it not for the elevated highways cresting the tops of their viridian canopy, it would take years to cross.

It didn't take long for Ia to locate her favourite spot, where the edge of the forest all but fell into the sea. The 'Trackless Sea', so named, was even greater than Cloakwood, dwarfing the great forest until it might as well be a small pond, or so she had heard. Ia didn't care to put any stock in the words of those around her, in part because they were always contradicting themselves, arguing over trivialities, and always having to be right, but mostly because no matter how many times she explained, pleaded, demanded, hissed and cussed, not a one of them would pronounce her name as 'Ee-er', insisting upon 'Eye-ah' regardless of her wishes. One even had the gall to debate phonetics and linguistic dialects with her. It was her name, wasn't it? Should she not have the right to be addressed as she pleased? It wasn't as if she was putting on airs or insisting on a title. 'Eye-ah' would even be so bad, were it not for the crude rhymes of some of the stable boys, somehow implicating phallic grossness through the use of 'spire', 'dire' and elongated 'ah's, typically rising in crescendo in mimicry of what they imagined copulation to be. Bastards.

The monks weren't much better. Although half of them patently ignored her, she felt the crude, slinking, creeping stares of others, from, what she imagined to be beady, hungry little eyes beneath their cowls crawling all over her chest and hips, whenever her back was turned. She could just picture them licking their withered lips, smirking and envision themselves drooling over her, her tight green torn from her as she struggled and writhed, flailing and moaning. Ia shuddered and tried to push such images from her mind. It wasn't just her overactive imagination; she had run across the journal of one of them, apparently forgotten. It might have been a prank, a deliberate plant, but she couldn't forget the descriptions, so lovingly crafted and uncannily precise. It was as though the scribe had measured her and poured everything that filled his twisted little mind into this, his memorandum to prosperity. In these lustful, dark fantasies, he, presumably a he given the glamorous details of his physique, he described seducing her in her bath, peering at her while she stood beneath a forest waterfall, alone in a creek. He ascribed her to being akin to a tree dryad and water nymph, more beautiful than a sirine on her rock, fairer than a celestial. He portrayed her innocence, her purity, and how, once broken, she would smile, as coy as any incubus in dark leathers. It was so revolting that Ia felt filthy, but couldn't bring herself to shower, lest he really was peeking at her.

It might be excused as the rancid musings of a doddering fool were it not for the second tome she found, left upon a desk, Ia absently leafed through it. To her horror, wedged between several of the pages were sketches on loose sheets. These same sketches depicted her in a variety of poses and various states of dress and undress, with increasingly lewd and compromising positions. Props seemed to be of particular interest to the artist, along with an unhealthy obsession with cord. Why did people want to tie her up so much? As with the 'literature', she confiscated the sketches, and stowed them in the rear compartment of her bedroom bureau. A little later, she uncovered a set of poems hidden beneath the study desks of the library. Then she conducted a thorough search of all the desks and bookshelves, searching for anything that was too loose or crammed too tightly, for secreted compartments, behind the backs of the shelves and frames.

She did, at least, have some mollification, for she was not the only muse of these foul creations. At least one other, Imoen, the auburn-headed daughter of the nightclub-cum-bar, eatery, hotel and hostel manager, was the inspiration for an especially lascivious piece, crafting her as a luscious heroine with delicate and conniving wiles. Imoen was nothing of the sort, as far as Ia could tell, and one of the few females, and the only one even close to her age, it really was a shame they didn't get along. Ia would have liked a friend, but while they didn't hate each other, their interests simply ran too differently. Everything Imoen said bored Ia to tears, and Imoen had even less patience for Ia's longing to visit the ocean and be free of the place than Ia did for Imoen's whimsical fancies. While on paper, there appeared to be a shared desire to roam free, Imoen's idea of running wild involved touring the mega-metropolis of Baldur's Gate, exploring the seediest taverns and nightclubs, falling hopelessly in love while her handsome prince serenaded her, moonlighting as a bard, and paying for everything. None of that even remotely appealed to Ia, especially given what the filthy-minded monks of Candlekeep were like. Of course, Imoen proved that women could be just as vile, if not worse.

Once, Ia caught a peek of Imoen's diary, and curiosity got the better of her. What she read there was as bad as anything she'd encountered up in the library halls. In some ways, it was worse. Imoen evidently had access to peepholes, and she dressed up these episodic escapades as great romantic sagas. She was also a light-fingered little wench who lifted all manner of trophies, if Ia understood her diary correctly. Perhaps it was nothing more than an overactive, bored imagination, but somehow, it held a distinctive ring of truth to it Ia couldn't quite shake. For those reasons and more, Ia just couldn't bring herself to like Imoen. Perhaps, she reflected, as she gazed out at the crashing waves, the true difference between them was Imoen laughed at the poems and sketches of her, as if they were the funniest thing ever. Ia wasn't remotely 'tickled' by such filth. Imoen wanted to Ia to plant similar fictions, fictions that Imoen described in great detail, placing the various monks with one another and with the stable boys.

As the wind-swept waves rose and fell, Ia wondered if there really were sirines and merfolk out there, or if they were merely myth. Genetic mutations and degenerates one tome claimed stemmed from the time of Netheril's experiments, and numerous off-casts were formed as the greatest minds of the empire tried to perfect the human form. Ia wasn't convinced 'off-casts' was a real word, which led her to question the validity of the whole text.

The truth was, Ia hated studying. There were so many books and most of them were written in the most tedious way imaginable, and though there was the occasional snippet of interest, most were so bland they seemed pointless. At least if they were consistent, she might be more inclined to their validity, but so many tomes contradicted others, often citing this text or that, so in order to accurately consume what the author was saying, she had to read an entire library first. The problem was, _every_ work seemed to do this, and there was no common starting point. Maybe that's just how things were. But out here, the world seemed so different to the fragments she could comprehend. There was also such a dissonance between the heights of civilisation the books and monks argued over and what her own eyes saw. What's more, she couldn't understand the fervour. What did any of it matter? But both the texts and their living counterparts, the monks, held such passion; they _had_ to be right, and would bring down anyone, no matter how many hours it took, to prove they were, in fact, correct. Priding themselves as the true authorities, the guardians of knowledge, gatekeepers of lore, and curators of the past age, the monks of Candlekeep, to Ia at least, were nothing more than spectres, wraiths basking in the glories of an already forgotten, shadowed past while history continued its relentless march, written with each passing day. Candlekeep, by its very nature, was passed by as more recent and current events shaped the world, a world the monks wanted nothing to do with, revelling instead in what amounted to the dead. Dead days, dead people. These great minds, these philosophers, engineers, architects, of magic and genetics, of those who served the gods, were about as useful now as the dust kicked up by the hooves of the horses.

She had to get away.


	2. 2

2.

Brought low by the crashing waves, the earthen bank that held the last, bulwark row of trees succumbed. With a creak, the giants groaned, then slowly toppled, their broad upright trunks smashed into the high waters. Hungry for more, the tide did not relent, but tore at more of the earth. These were not the first trees the sea consumed, but Ia, who had spent all night watching the storm, as lightning danced over the turbulent waters and the gales howled like banshees, or what she imagined a banshee to sound like, now snuggled in a blanket in a quiet alcove. It was, Ia noted, the fifth such attempt this month.

Soon the seas would subside, their morning swell stilling, and two months from now, the forest would turn golden, crimson, orange and the sea would once again begin to batter the cliffs. Winter would fall, and the terrible storms would match those of the late summer, as if the seasonal storms were in competition with themselves. But right now, the fury had dimmed, the wall of water grim, unrelenting, too bright to be sullen as the sun set its waves sparkling. At such times, Ia decided the sea was a grouch, an old man who had too much to drink and after a night of hollering, abated himself from his tantrum, begrudging as he pushed. At other times, the sea seemed as a fair maiden with gorgeous hair, with massed tendrils of kelp and seaweed near its surface. The waters held different colourations, different smells, and the clouds cast shadows, while the sun streaked in beams. The wind had its own temperament too. Beside her, propped up against her lap, her book described the currents that allowed the great ships to brave the gulf, the vast, yearning chasm of the previously unknown sea lanes. The book was nothing more than a shield, its presence there to ward away her mentor, the sage Gorion.

Tucking her feet in firmly under her, Ia absently tugged at her sock. Once white, it had greyed a little, and lost just enough of its shape to be a nuisance but not enough to waste time fixing. Not that fixing it would do much good; the fabric was frayed on the sole's underside. She really needed new socks, but that would mean having to endure a long trip with Phlydia, invasive questions about her weight and health, while being clucked at and measured, poked and prodded in places Ia preferred to forget existed. It wasn't that she disliked her body, more that it was a hassle to deal with the ways others viewed her. Phlydia adopted a grandmotherly approach, or so Ia inferred, and with that, came the territory of being a 'young woman' still unable to dress herself, apparently, as though she were somehow a young child and one on the onset of puberty. It was bad enough having to live with her body without having everything explained in scrutinising detail every time she needed a new pair of socks.

Socks, of course, in Phlydia's mind, seemed to extend to a significant expansion of Ia's wardrobe, and extended to stockings, which Ia did not care for, since those drew even lewder stares and smirks than usual, tights, which were only slightly better than stockings, unmentionables, which also included negligee, pyjamas, which would have been fine had Ia had a say in the cut, instead of being forced to don some long, white gown, too thin for summer, too thick for winter, and more of those horrible, overly tight split, knee-length funeral shrouds Phlydia insisted were 'in vogue' and brought out her eyes. That should have been it, but Phlydia then expected Ia to 'accessorise', and as a 'young lady', apparently sheltered and innocent, despite Phlydia telling her about the 'facts of life' each time she was obliged to stop by for tea, and inquiring less than subtly about whether Ia had found herself a nice, good looking boy yet, to which Phlydia supplied several suitable candidates, Ia had to maintain appearances.

In short, that involved having her hair done, her nails for both her fingers and toes fussed over, and then, Phlydia insisted on subjecting her to a tedious and painful ordeal, involving her eyebrows being plucked, her armpits and legs 'treated', and her face covered in clay, and her body oiled and beaten. Phlydia looked for an excuse to indulge in such 'spa days' and claimed that 'beauty took effort', then smiled brightly. Whenever Phlydia could, she'd rake a brush through Ia's hair, commenting on its dark, luscious locks, all but ripping it from her scalp, pleating and pinning it back. In all, Ia felt more like a doll than a person, and when Phlydia got the urge to dress her, there was little she could do but hide. By way of escape, there were several nooks that made excellent hidey-holes, but actually leaving Candlekeep was impossible, unless it was with Phlydia.

If it was just on Ia's terms, she might be able to stomach it once every couple of months, but Phlydia actually came looking for her. The woman was relentless. As Gorion, her mentor and guardian lacked a wife, or apparent mistress, Phlydia undertook it upon herself to raise Ia with the womanly virtues that only a lady could bestow, and Gorion, who understood this as an opportunity to keep Ia tethered, readily agreed. In fact, Ia wasn't entirely sure which one of the two concocted it, but resigned herself to the cold, harsh truth that it was probably mutual. Gorion who kept his distance, pausing only to check in on her studies, and lecture her at length about the importance of knowledge, but never answered anything, demanded total and absolute obedience. His standards for Ia were bizarre and contradictory; what was permissible and what was not seemed to depend on the day, the season, and what mood he or Phlydia were in.

Some days, Phlydia would drone on and on about boys, prospective futures, and then she would insist on the virtues of chastity. Other times, her eyes would twinkle and ask what kind of flutters Ia enjoyed, what had set her breathless, and what daydreams 'tickled her nethers'. Whatever the hells that was supposed to mean. Ia hoped the last was a simple err, a misspoken word or the middle-aged old bat was simply teasing her. If Gorion ever caught wind of such conversations, there was no telling how he'd react. He might laugh it off, or he might lecture her, or worse, he might decide it was time she 'found someone' as Phlydia was always threatening. It wouldn't be long until Phlydia took the conversation to Gorion himself.

The worst of it was all Ia really wanted was to wear leggings and a long tee-shirt, whether short sleeved or long did not matter, but even as pyjamas Phlydia wouldn't hear of it. Gorion entrusted Phlydia with credit, so no chip ever touched Ia's wrist. When she was older was a phrase she heard over and over. She didn't know quite how much Phlydia's little excursions to Beregost cost, but the town was three days by horse and that was on the viaduct-styled highway known somewhat ostentatiously as the 'Way of the Lion'. However, as a practitioner of the Art, Phlydia harnessed the Weave to ignite and power a carriage that hovered above the road, and swiftly outpaced any horse and cart. There were many such carriages, whole trains in fact, of differing sizes, which flowed in and out of Beregost.

Phlydia was fond of commenting what a 'quaint' little place Beregost was. To Ia, Beregost was huge. But, she supposed, given the descriptions of Baldur's Gate, the 'town' was small. Beregost might not even fill one of the smaller districts of the sprawling metropolis, yet the town was an impossible warren of streets, with only the upper boulevards lit. The lower streets' lampposts simply ceased to function, as none of the clerics or the mages, who drew on the Weave, cared enough to power them. In turn, this left the lower streets in a state of such squalor that the even the sewers that ran beneath the town must have better construction. Aside from the masses of warehouses, stacked terrace housing, street stalls and foot traffic, there was also a flood of rickshaw carts, wagons and carriages ranging in quality and paint-styles. The noise, smell and clamour of the place was enough to cause Ia to refrain from mentioning her wardrobe's health.

Just the thought of it made her want to stitch her own brassière and stays. Having to try on different camisoles and being fitted for a new chemise was even worse than sewing, and if there was one thing she hated even more than the dull words of the masters, it was sewing. Ia was deft enough not to stick herself with the needle three times out of eight, but threading the blasted thing was a nightmare, and the only place she could actually sew was in her cell, and if Phlydia caught her, she would find herself dragged out on yet another shopping trip. She could make the excuse she was practicing her embroidery, a practice Phlydia insisted she learn, but then she was clucked at and scolded. Embroidery was a social practice, and one meant to be taken with tea, in Phlydia's quarters. And should she find herself a quiet corner, where the mages powered the orbs that lit Candlekeep's halls, and one of those lecherous monks saw her, she would never live it down. They still hadn't forgotten the last time, and the amount of snarky missives and sketches increased beyond tolerance.

Ia sighed, longing to swim in the sea. That was something she'd never experienced, since even if she could reach the beach, the coastline was dangerous. The great sewers of the coastal cities spilled all manner of toxic waste into the oceans, and those denizens of the sewers, the rejects and castoffs of prehistoric Netheril's experiments were joined by their modern counterparts. The experiments never stopped. That was something Ia was never meant to know about, but despite Gorion's absence, she wasn't blind, and unlike Imoen could able to draw on some small talent and simulate some of the guests' magic-locked palm press, she was able to shimmy along the broad window ledge and clamber through. Gorion liked to leave his panes raised, invigorated by the sea air, supposedly. For a man who spent so much time in a giant fortress library, he seemed remarkably averse to stale air and musty rooms. Not that Ia could blame him. There was something wonderful about the sea breeze. Shimming along the wide ledge wasn't as dangerous as it sounded either: it had a double lip and might once have been intended to house a balcony, or at least, a railing. The lip was high enough that even if she slipped, the chances were she wouldn't fall, and the only time the ledge was slick was after it rained.

The rain here was much cleaner than the rain in Beregost, she reflected, as she remembered its cool freshness. In Beregost, and presumably the other cities from what little she'd gleaned, stung, and ate away at the stonework. Its runoffs seeped in with the foul waste of the mages' brews, the factories' dyes and other things that did not bear thinking about. Of course, the upper city was shielded from such biting rain, but the lower streets were left to wallow. Many of the drains were clogged. Ia sighed. The last time she visited with Phlydia, she noted that a great streak of the forest was blackened, bare and dead. It extended for many, many miles, and while it was a minute fraction of the overall forest, it was still sad.

Ia resisted from dabbing at her cheek, but gingerly moved her hair. Even here, she never knew how far Phlydia was, and that woman seemed to spend more time lurking than anything else. It would be just Ia's luck if Phlydia burst in on her scratching, because, no matter how much it might itch, scratching, even with the tip of her nail, was about as ladylike as bursting a pimple, and the gods help her if Phlydia ever discovered Ia with another pimple. Long, stern talks about diet, health, natural oils, face creams, and then being zapped with carefully channelled of the Art that left her face stinging more than that one time Ulraunt slapped her for sticking her five-year-old nose in the upper storeys of the keep. As the 'Keeper of the Tomes', Ulraunt acted like the upper storeys were his own private dominion and skulked about, hiding himself under a cowl. The gatewarden sent hourly reports, zealously guarding the various entrances to the outside world and the upper tower, but his attempts paled before Ulraunt, whose jealousy for 'the rules', rules implemented mainly by Ulraunt himself, saw layers and layers of binding wards.

Ia still remembered how Ulraunt towered over her younger self, bringing the full weight of his artificially smoothed face to bear as he bore down on her. His eyes carried an almost feverish light, a frenzied canny awareness, darting from side to side. What little his eyes missed, his ears caught. They seemed to prickle at the slightest sound. She had known instantly how cunning he was, how he laid traps with words. She could recall the taste of his heavily sweetened breath, so sickly it was rancid. His spidery hands dug sharply into her shoulders, and even though his draw was short, her cheeks were reddened and smarting as his hand snapped in quick succession. Those long, spindly fingers ensnared her chin and jaw even as her eyes welled, pushing her cheeks up and he warned her never to set foot there again. Children had no place in the library, let alone in the upper tower, off limits to all but a select, chosen few. The worst of it was she simply took a wrong turn. The mage-powered elevator, one of the few devices that ran on charge and needed continual topping, had stopped at her floor but she wasn't paying attention, stepped off and instead of the stairs, which she always ascended to reach her chamber, led her higher and higher. After a couple of flights, she realised she was lost, so searched for someone to help. To her mind, there was no one downstairs or she would have already encountered them, so the only solution was to keep walking in the hopes of finding someone. Her plan worked, but it was unfortunate she encountered Ulraunt.

Still, facing Ulraunt was preferable to Phlydia, and sewing was preferable to shopping. More recently, Phlydia included another horror to the list. Quite aside from the modifications to her hair, tight clothing, and the trying on of various gowns and garments, Ia also found herself subjected to a practice that was clearly a morning and evening ritual, in spite of its lack of invocations. Small pots housing various powders, creams, brushes and paints were arrayed on a mirrored night stand. These were then liberally applied to her face, pressed on with rounded pads after her face was subjected to a vigorous scrub, which involved lemon juice, salts and other things. Finally, a delicately-tipped brush painted her underlid, and another her lips. Rouge was applied to her cheeks, and then, her hair ornaments and earrings, which Phlydia had one day taken to purchasing, and led her to have her lobes punctured in three places, were chosen to match the eyeshadow and lipstick. A spray was chosen to complement the visual, adding a pleasing scent to her 'young, nubile body'.

Ia found few of the scents Phlydia chose remotely pleasing, but had to keep from coughing, and gagging. Yet, she was obliged to wear them, just as she was obliged to frequent the gymnasium, one of the few times she was forced to endure Imoen. Imoen, of course, deemed the gym to be 'optional', and often opted out. Ia had no such luxury and couldn't help but feel resentful. From laps to stretches, to swinging from bars and stepping sedately on balance beams, Ia vaulted and twirled, this hybrid of aerobics and ballet all under the iron rule of Phlydia's old friend, Piato. These exercises Ia actually enjoyed, though not Piato's rasping bark. The wiry man, at the dusk of middle age, carried with him a staff he liked to rap against the floor. He also employed a long, flat wooden rod that he used to correct poise and stance with, often non-too-gently. Though never unkind, Piato was a man bound by precision, lending him an air that could be mistaken as fussy, were it not for his rapacious demand for excellence. He never allowed her to zone out, nor did he regale her with tales of others. In fact, all Ia knew of the man was when he was not visiting Phlydia, as he did for three days out of each tenday, he was up in the Gate.

Phlydia constantly reminded Ia that she should consider herself 'privileged' to be taught by such an august dancing master, and both he, and Phlydia herself would brook no insolence on her part. Phlydia also informed her, over a number of occasions, that Piato was the personal dance master of one Skie Silvershield. At this, Ia looked completely blank. Exasperation took the form of a curtailed sigh, Phlydia's sharp exhalation followed by, in overly patient terms, that the Silvershields made up one of the leading families of Baldur's Gate. Her father, an oligarch, was the Grand Duke and also widely renowned as the richest man in the city. Duke Entar was famed far and wide, and Phlydia could simply not believe Ia had not heard of him. She also confided that Duke Entar's son, Eddard, was said to be one of the most handsome, eligible young men around, and was enlisted with the Order of the Radiant Heart, a sect of devote paladins sworn to uphold order, justice and the law. Ia couldn't exactly bring herself to feel enthralled, despite the low, conspiratorial tones Phlydia adopted. That long knowing look as the woman settled back into an almost regal, grandiose posture completely failed to impress upon Ia anything beyond Phlydia was an old gossip.

Since her words lacked the desired effect, Phlydia simply huffed, and with a sniff, informed Ia that a young lady needed to remain 'supple' and 'firm', then spoke at length about womanly virtues, womanly assets, and the true advantage of a strong, graceful thigh, which naturally led to a long talk about childbirth, marriage, and eligible suitors. It might have been enough to make Ia scream, but for the niggling question over whether or not Phlydia ever wed or bore children. How much of her tedium had she actually lived? This question continued to nip at Ia, but something warned her not to ask.

So as she sat in the alcove, pinching the tip of her fraying sock, staring at the distant sea, while the clouds cast shadows and the sun broke against the white-tipped waves, Ia wondered if she'd ever dip even so much as her toe in the shimmering waters, if she'd ever feel the sands against her soles, and if one day, she would ever own a pair of pyjamas that didn't resemble the musty, stained robes of Candlekeep's monks. Far to the west, Ia caught a glimpse of one of the heavy trawlers, its colossal bulk no longer than her forefinger from her perch. Shifting her shoulders, she absently tucked her carefully woven braid out of the way and drew her heels closer up and in. Was there really anything out there, or would it be more Beregosts, more cities like the metropolis she heard snippets about for so many years but never visited?

A slow, subdued rumble growled from her tummy. With a long sigh, Ia pushed her back up against the alcove's wall. The monks' rations were shipped by freight from Beregost, which came from who knew where, but along with the dried kelp and processed algae, there were fruits grown in mage-fuelled glasshouses, and a type of potent, clear spirit. No matter how it was seasoned, how it was spliced, diced, fried, grilled, and rehydrated, the algae cubes still tasted like pondweed, and Ia only knew that because Candlekeep maintained aquariums. As a child, Ia had wondered if the scum in the tank was the same as the algae they ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. At the age of twelve to Imoen's probable ten, possible eleven, she really should have known better than to vocalise such thoughts, for sure enough, Imoen somehow broke into the tank, snagged some of the pondweed and together, while screwing up their faces, they confirmed that their staple was the same as the scum in the tanks. The only real difference was the processed stuff was less slimy. Whatever they treated it with, the artificial flavourings were meant to resemble other things, like meat, chowder, even the beans they occasionally received. On that day, Ia vowed never to play dares with Imoen.

Bringing her knees to her chin, Ia hugged her legs and let her chin rest. Imoen could wear her hair as she pleased, whether up in a long tail, or lopped off to curl around her nape. Other times, she wore it like a boy. Imoen also had credit, despite not officially being paid more than a minute allowance. Through tips she charmed out of the few visiting aristocrats and from the monks and guards who frequented the nightclub and bar, she always had enough to do whatever she pleased. Now she dyed her hair every tenday, somehow convincing the freight driver it was worth his while to grab a couple of vials for her from one of Beregost's numerous markets.

Despite another, more insistent growl, Ia didn't think she could stomach spending more time near Imoen or anyone else. The thought of dried snack-bars was enough to make her gag. Even the string noodles she contented herself with, whenever she could smuggle a pot away from the dining hall, as supposedly noodles were far from ladylike, did not appeal. Idly, Ia considered the report she'd flinched from Gorion's suite. It confirmed that the harvests were failing, and banditry along the dirt roads were rife, some bold enough to scale the highways and ambush freight shipments. None of that boded well, and suppressing a shiver, Ia found the solidity of the stone to be particularly reassuring.

Her mind wandering, her eye followed the ledge to Gorion's windows. Unlike her, Gorion possessed a sitting room overlooking the ocean, with a desk set aside as an open-planned study, and his bedroom and en suite lay a little beyond that. Fortunately, the walls were thick enough she never had to hear him snore, or listen to anything else for that matter, and she did at least have a shower closet, which was just large enough for her to wash in. As wide as her door, the shower contained a pull-out privy, and above that, a pull-out basin below a torso-sized mirror. Gorion had the luxury of a bath, his en suite slightly larger than Ia's entire room. With built in shelves, drawers and a foldout bed, and foldup desk, Ia's room was narrow, twice as long as her bed, but it had one feature she adored: her alcove. On par with her desk, it ballooned out into a broad windowsill, its walls rising as an arch and on three sides, there were pullup windows. Although she couldn't stretch out in it, she could sit comfortably, though in the last couple of months, it felt a bit more squashed. Ia's absolute favourite thing was to spread her quilt over the stone sill, snuggle up in it and let the breeze waft through her hair, caressing her cheeks and filling her nostrils. Unless she jimmied the windows just so, she would never fall onto the broad, wide ledge with its double lip. It was almost by accident she discovered she could slip outside, an idle thought teasing her since Gorion, who had her stand upright in his living room, proceeded to lecture her about something irrelevant. The blinds, Ia noted, swayed, and through them, she saw the lipped ledge. Unlike her little alcove, Gorion's windows were flat, wide and tall, and most of all, they were open.

The reports Gorion received revealed a whole new side of him. Much more connected to the world at large than she ever imagined, she questioned who supplied him with such information. While some seemed impersonal, others addressed him directly. Sent through the Weave, or perhaps, through its power, Ia wasn't entirely sure which, the missive or 'sending' as it was known, saw an orb that either read a page or the person, mage or other, place their hand on the orb and direct their thought. This in turn connected to another orb, which somehow arranged the letters and burnt them onto a tablet, which reset. Any previous missives were held inside the tablet, however, which could be accessed so long as the tablet remained charged. The best part was the tablet did not need to be connected to the orb, only 'in range'. As long as the tablet was magically attuned to the orb, it would continue to receive missives. Of course, each tablet could only hold about a hundred pages' worth, and needed constant charging, but that could be done by setting the table against the orb.

Ia inherently understood that Gorion, who had a whole shelf full of blank tablets was too busy to notice one was missing. How many other tablets he had, she wasn't sure, but she was certain it was a lot. Possibly dozens. She also realised that she could copy out the more important messages by hand, store them in a journal, and then wipe the entry from the tablet, allowing her to use it over and over. Now, all she needed was to not be caught when she slid the tablet between the desk and the wall, for the orb was mounted on the bureau beside the window. From its ebbing glow, her tablet needed charging soon, but Ia would have to make sure Gorion was gone. She considered setting up a mirror, breaking a piece of her own, but she had little to hold it in place, even if she could angle it, and Gorion might see the glint. Her next plan was to place a mirror on a pole, perhaps a mop, and hoist her extendable arm out of the window. The trouble was the wind could rip it from her hands, and she would have a hard time explaining the mop handle. She considered hiding it beneath her rollup mattress, which currently sat in a bag on a peg, but that would mean chopping the shaft up. Phlydia was liable to randomly invade and search her drawers and closets, and rather bizarrely, her bed, checking the fragrance and cleanliness of the sheets and bedding.

These inspections were something Ia was so accustomed to, she no longer protested, simply accepting that's how things were. Her privacy was confined to those precious moments between outings and inspections, her modesty mostly respected. Phlydia was as liable to search her room while Ia showered or used the privy than when Ia was present or at the gymnasium. Her garments were critiqued, and Ia often found herself having to change to show Phlydia what fitted. In such a confined space, the pull-out screen gave her the appearance of privacy but Ia questioned what such a divider was doing in such a small room. It did not seem to make a difference, as Phlydia called her out in her nightgown, and her smalls, her fussing hands tightening or loosening straps, adjusting ties, all while the woman clucked to herself. If Ia gained weight, Phlydia knew. If Ia lost a sock, Phlydia knew. Overbearing was a word that never occurred to the woman, or so it seemed. Were Ia to elicit the same random searches on Phlydia, it would spark such an uproar 'outrageous' would not begin to cover it.

Returning once again to the view of the forest, Ia scooted to the left, her nightgown catching and straining against her and the stone. What she would give for shorts like Imoen wore over tights, or even a nice skirt. Staring at the distant swooping birds, so small they appeared as little more than dots, Ia wondered what it would be like to have someone to write to, someone who would write back. Perhaps she could manage a walk in the gardens today, between the glass tanks of fish and pondweed, to a bench set beneath actual trees. The indoor garden held flowers with huge blossoms, but its trees looked different to those of the forest. Ia wasn't allowed anywhere near the outer wall, and its armed guards kept those inside Candlekeep in as much as they kept the rest of the world out. Her finger slid along the rim of her sock. There was no escaping it. Despite the frequency of their trips, Phlydia was careful to ensure that Ia had only a tenday's worth of clothing. As soon as anything stained, frayed, pilled, or didn't fit, it went. Perhaps it was her way of forcing Ia to accompany her, for she could scarcely wander around in rags. This seeming contradiction in expense, given how their rations were cultivated algae, never failed to surprise Ia. It made no sense at all. Was her appearance really more important than the food that filled her belly? Was it really so vital that her sole pair of slippers were reskinned as soon as the satin scuffed? That her neat ankle boots' were genuine suede, and therefore, couldn't be worn outside in the rain? Must her face really be powered? Ia tried not to sigh, but winced as her tummy now gurgled. Like her mind, it wouldn't keep still, and it took several seconds for its voice to fade.

Unwillingly, Ia scooped herself up and off the sill. She should have smuggled more snack-bars and string noodles out, but she failed to restock the hidey-hole behind the skirting board. Her little larder was one of the few places Phlydia remained unaware of, one of the few secrets Ia had. If she really tried, she could have made more, secreted things around the keep, but really, what was the point? Nothing ever really changed; she had dreams of swimming in the sea, walking through the forest, but both were so dangerous that it would probably kill her even if she did make it. Each day was filled with considered, careful steps, practicing her poise, sitting gracefully and ignoring the lewd looks and comments as those, old enough to be her grandfather, father and brother, drooled and exchanged filthy whispers, notes and pictures. Each day, she had hours to herself with nothing to do, but embroider and sip tea with a woman who monopolised her every stitch and hair, who painted her face and dressed her like a porcelain doll, or study dull works by those long dead, in a cacophony of references that seemed as vast as the forest's canopy. She could roam the gardens, stare at the fish tanks, or she could talk with Imoen, whom didn't seem capable of refraining from gossip. And maybe, if she was very fortunate, Ia could avoid the tedious lectures, the talks on how she should behave, the inspections of her room, and maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have to stand in her underwear while Phlydia decided whether or not her gown, which changed with the seasons, needed taking in, or if it was time to replace it with something new. Maybe, she could avoid Gorion, and avoid being scolded for no reason whatsoever, except that perhaps she was a nuisance for simply existing. Perhaps she could enjoy her dance and gym class, but that was two days away, and Piato's flat stick had never once refrained from lightly slapping her. No matter how hard she tried, her leg was never straight enough, never relaxed enough, not quite bent at the knee enough; her hips weren't cocked enough, were too cocked, her pivot, while perfect, lacked the suitable expression. Her poise was not just physical, but about the inner self projected; she should be like a swan, as graceful on water as in flight. She should be a princess, whose composure was destined to command respect, while demure enough to offer it to those above her.

Ia had yet to see a swan. Or a princess. And while leotards were really so bad, Phlydia's clucking at the way the fabric gathered at her hips and belly was something she could do without, since it wasn't her fault everything pulled. Her baby-fat had all but melted and while she might not look like a dancer or athlete, she wasn't stocky or chubby. Imoen weighed more than she did, had thicker arms and thighs and liked to remark how if Ia lost any more weight, she'd resemble a stick. A stick that wanted to be an hourglass but didn't eat enough. Ia knew she wasn't an hourglass either, but probably closer to that then a stick, or at least she hoped so. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, she wouldn't get all those looks if she wasn't made to wear slimming gowns, a painted face, long hair and jewellery. Maybe if she could just wear a strapped top, like Imoen did, or even just robes, everyone would just leave her alone. But it wouldn't happen, because nothing ever changed, except for her body, which seemed determined to become the paragon of an hourglass. But deep down, Ia could not imagine any other kind of life any more than she could imagine speaking the way Imoen spoke, without the soft-spoken courtesy, or walking without whispering across thin ice. Imoen could get away with being loud, in movements and voice, but it never mattered if Imoen sat with her knees spread like a boy's. Imoen was free to act however she wished, and with her freckles, bright eyes and cheery laugh, no one minded. But Imoen lacked the one thing that everyone prized so highly in Ia: elegance, perfect skin, and purity. Ia would have traded it all just to run barefoot, even if she never climbed trees, never swam in the sea.

Impatiently, her tummy reminded her she hadn't even dressed for the day, and its demands became more insistent. With a sigh she no longer registered, Ia surrendered to the inevitable, resigning herself to another, tedious day. At least, she consoled herself, she had food, clothes and a room of her own unlike so many of those thronging the streets of Beregost. At least here, she was safe.


	3. 3

3.

Ia's night began like every other. Earlier, Phlydia cornered her late that afternoon, and invited her in for tea. Unable to refuse, Ia sipped from a dainty, porcelain cup while carefully holding a saucer. The tea itself was something she had been unable to acquire a taste for, no matter how hard she tried. No amount of sweetener helped, but drinking it plain was clucked at. Apparently concerned that her lessons were not being handled, since Ia made the mistake of telling her it was four days since she'd seen Gorion, Phlydia got up, rummaged in her shelf, and handed her a crinkled tome. A history of Halruaa. Ia was to read a chapter a night, and Phlydia would quiz her on it every afternoon. Fully expecting to be thanked, Phlydia looked tremendously pleased with herself. Ia simply dipped her head, hands pressing together in the folds of her gown. While Phlydia's rooms were spacious, there was a triteness about them that Ia found unsettling. Perhaps it was the Shou vases, or the porcelain dolls, or just the rug from Thay, but it felt as though she was never far from sitting on the shelf herself, from having ribbons tied in her hair, or her cheeks pinched to bring colour to them. Ia rarely witnessed Phlydia's anger, but understood that a temper lay beneath the surface, a temper that Phlydia kept disguised through smiles and little sentences, correcting those around her. Now and then, those blue eyes flashed, and the mask slipped. Ia wasn't sure she'd be able to stop her, or run, if Phlydia seized her. Phlydia was also versed in the Art, and while Gorion, supposedly instructed Ia in theories and its history, no one ever taught her anything of practical value, not even the smallest incantation.

However, once darkness fell, and Ia could retire, for to be abed outside of a reasonable hour would have caused many eyebrows to raise, she was able to practice in secret. For years, Ia believed she lacked a natural affinity with the Weave, that she held no gift at all, but one night, something changed. In absolute frustration, ready to scream and throw her hands up, on the cusp of abandoning it entirely, something inside her broke. It had already been a long day, a longer tenday than she cared to recall, and her inability to form the simplest cantrip was too much. She _knew_ she could feel the Weave, knew some part of her was aware of its currents and ripples, that she could sense its residue, but controlling it was beyond her. Had she never felt the Weave at all, she might have given up on it, but to feel without being able to channel so much as a cantrip pushed her beyond all reason. Somehow, in that moment, she reached past the Weave, beyond it, into herself, and there, she accessed a reservoir she did not even know she possessed. This well, similar but somehow not the Weave, brimmed, and through her frustration, a tiny orb of light shimmered at the very tip of her finger. So shocked at her success, she fell backwards and landed heavily on her rear; uncaring, she picked herself up, almost tripping over her heavy nightgown. Breathlessly, she reached inside, and haltingly, lifted one of the tendrils of white light emanating from the well. Inherently, she realised she could give form to it, willing it into shape, turning it to her purpose. This was better than the Weave, her secret, that was hers and hers alone.

As she peered ever deeper, over the years, she discovered that the well had no end, not that she could see. The deeper she went, the more the molten light grew golden, though as she pushed down, she found a filmy, almost sickly red tinge surrounding it. It didn't matter. She could use magic. While she knew no spells, no invocations, no cantrips, she found she did not need to. She could mimic the effects of existing spells. Something inside her warned her not to charge the devices of the mages, to feign her awareness and keep her secret hidden. This small whisper offered wise counsel, so Ia chose to listen to it. Mostly, it was silently, but now and then, it offered nuggets, hints, suggestions. Ia could never be sure that it wasn't her speaking to herself, but whatever part of her it was seemed detached, separated from the rest of her daily life. It did not matter; she did not need it murmuring all the time, and when it did murmur, it was always right. She had learnt to trust it, to trust her instincts and herself.

The murmur warned that extending herself would only alert others, and drawing attention to herself with great feats, which she was more than capable of, would not serve her presently. Ia dismissed it; her, capable of great feats? What a silly notion. Still, it stuck, and that night, like the other nights, Ia sat cross-legged in her nightgown, immersing herself in her power, drawing it around her, lacing and weaving it, warming and cooling the air, shifting the colour of light, and lifting herself off the ground. The last was her absolute favourite, and although she had never achieved more than half a foot, she hoped, longed, to fly. Perhaps she was going about it wrong, but forming a cushion of air felt immeasurably comfortable, and slight, almost gentle alterations allowed her to control the angle, the pressure, and she discovered she could knead her back and shoulders by clenching and releasing pockets of air. These she imagined as fists, claws, squeezing at her. She also discovered she was able to draw in a cloud, using pressure to conduct the air. The cloud was steam from her shower rather than the sky, which she realised would look very odd if anyone saw, but she found, if she so desired, she could turn the steam to ice then back again. All of these were tricks even the most basic adept of the Art could achieve, but for Ia, it was a dream come true.

It didn't take long for her to grow bored, however, and given her accumulating frustration and sense of helplessness, her recklessness grew increasing demanding. Playing at mirroring the Art was useless if she couldn't use it. Alone in her room, toying with air and water, steam and ice; what was the point? Parlour tricks at best. She needed to get away, but where? How? And then what? Her mind criticised harshly. She had no credit, no chip on which to put credit. Without the Art, she couldn't hire her services as a mage; whatever this was, she needed to keep it secret. She didn't know how she knew, she just did. And so, deflated, she stumbled into bed, using her will to force her bed open, for her mattress to fall from its bag and spread itself, for her bedding to tumble out. Her control wasn't so strong that she could force the sheets to tuck themselves in. Yet. But that was Ia's next challenge. It was still useless, but perhaps if she could spread her lacy tendrils of invisible light and air, she could use it to ready her each morning and night. And yet, she slumped down, were Phlydia ever to catch her, she wasn't sure what might happen. Perhaps she might pass it off as the Art, but more likely, she would 'have words' with Gorion.

Unwillingly, Ia allowed her eyes to close. As soon as she slept, she would hasten the onset of yet another day. And that day, like today, would hold only insignificant differences. Her body would continue to subtly grow, maturing and she would continue to endure lecherous looks, Phlydia's interference and Gorion's absence and lectures. Imoen would continue to prance around in shorts, overalls, and wear funky hats. Ulraunt would continue to haunt the upper storeys…

Ia felt herself drift, her consciousness slipping as bright, vivid images of a constructed narrative that made sense only while asleep took hold.

From somewhere within a yellow and green street, with great blue blocks and a gigantic, waddling orange fish, that (supposedly) spoke in dwarfish, and sang in turquoise about a pink and straw-hatted tortoise, Ia came to abruptly. The silence of the night and the still air enveloped her before her eyes snapped open. The ensuing darkness, at first blinding, began to settle into familiar shapes. The blinds flittered, and a slither of silver shredded the black, its dim glow still radiant. In the sphere, night only occurred because the moon circled the sun, shrouding its glare and unending gaze. Now and then, the sun's light would catch, bounce off its edge, its light silver instead of gold. In that moment, a shrouded figure was outlined, and Ia, eyes bulging as she writhed, found herself pinned, her mouth covered. Before she could summon the presence of mind to do more than squirm, a syringe appeared in the figure's hand, its needle glinting. Trying to shake her head, her terror rising, Ia frantically scooted back. As the syringe bore down in a graceful arc, Ia managed to free her shoulder from the other's knee, but too late. As the needle pierced through the thick fabric and pricked her thigh, Ia realised it wouldn't have made a difference. Her freed arm was her right, while the syringe stuck her left. As she slumped, visions of the gigantic orange fish returned, it seemed to look at her with Gorion's eyes, extended its side fins into colossal wings, and flew off into pink and turquoise clouds. Through this, the dim awareness of an unfamiliar sensation echoed: a warm, soft, smooth palm cupping her cheek, the pad of an elegant thumb continually running below the ridge of her eye socket. The turquoise clouds belched, a scintillating trail of iridescent bubbles in their wake, a tiny world in each. Ia floated to explore these worlds, even as darkness swallowed everything.


	4. 4

4.

Ia awoke to a sight she had never woken to before: that of a cloud-filled, blue sky. The sun, as ever, remained stationary, though due to the enchanted barrier above the skies, its light filtered through in a way that informed Ia that there was perhaps an hour or so before noon. Beneath her, a cloak shifted, its fabric heavy, embracing. That same cloak was draped around her, her head nestled by its hood.

As Ia stared at the slow-shifting clouds, their bellies deep and grey, but not so blue as to open and weep, she became aware of her thigh. It didn't exactly throb, but it was sore. Before really noting why she was where she was, her hand, in her half-wakened state, reached for her leg and rubbed the offending spot. Then she felt a softness that was not her skin. Tracing a neat bandage, she found the slight puncture wound taped. Half slumping, half rolling, Ia twisted, her knees lifting to her chin, her arm pillowing her face. The grogginess did not dissipate, but her lids, heavier than she could say, flickered, fluttered, and eventually fell shut.

A huge hamster stared at her, its rainbow toenails protruding from furry little feet ringed with a dozen anklets. These ankles held the riches of the world, strew with opals, diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. A crown rested on its fuzzy head, its whiskers pulsing like the sun.

"Mmm-rrrmmm," Ia protested, burying her face and trying to return to the dream. The hand holding her shoulder shook again, its firm insistence ignoring how warm, snug and cosy Ia's world was.

"Lian." The word, spoken so softly, so assertively, resounded in her ear.

"Huh? That's not my name." Rubbing at her eyes, Ia twisted and stared into her own face. She blinked. Then blinked again. It wasn't her face, it was older. Smooth, with slight creases, dark eyes, tired, heavy, but alive, resolute, glinting with a fierceness Ia had never seen before. Those sharp porcelain cheeks, even sharper eyebrows, and dark, luscious hair. Full, but not wide, lips, a sleek nose, broken at one time and reset. Ia's nose had never been broken, at least, not to her knowledge. Was this her future self somehow travelled back through time via means of some magical gateway she had yet to discover?

The woman's lips cracked fractionally, but her gaze softened, her hand tenderly stroking Ia's cheek.

That was strange. Ia would never stroke her own face, would she? Who was she? Where was she? Pushing herself up, or trying to, Ia propped one elbow to the… floor? She glanced around. The room was burnished wood, planked floor to ceiling, and shone with an orangey-gold, their soft yellow glistening in… candlelight? Ia blinked several more times. Was she still dreaming? She pushed at the woman, who still loomed over her, clad in a hooded cloak, similar to those of the monks, or maybe a traveller. Ia's hand connected on something soft, and startled, she stared only to be met with a long look, the woman's lips now in a thin line. Ia quickly retracted her hand, and shuffled back, her hands behind her as she angled herself towards the woman. Hoping she could bring her knees to her chest and stand, Ia waited for the opportune moment. While thoughts of escape teased at her, her curiosity roared like an inferno driven by a gale. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the woman.

Finally, her the corner of her mouth scrunching, Ia could endure it no longer. While the silence lengthened, the woman seemed to be drinking in her every feature, tracing her every hair, from the curve of her nostril to the arch of her neck. Ia didn't feel even remotely violated, but she wasn't exactly comfortable, and no amount of shuffling deterred the strange woman. So Ia, unable to keep herself composed, prodded the woman in the bicep. Something flashed across those eyes, an abrupt widening and instant retraction, and then, then they twinkled, dancing. Ia could explain it, but everything changed.

"Come on," Ia found herself whining, "Tell me what's going on. Who are you?"

The mirth faded, and the woman's long hands cupped Ia's face. "You don't know?"

Squirming from her bottom to her shoulders, Ia could wriggle free, but managed a slight headshake. What was all this touching? It was so weird, but her smooth, soft hands felt so warm, her grasp so firm, yet tender. Ia wasn't about to be someone else's porcelain doll.

"Sit still, and I'll tell you a story." The woman who wore Ia's face offered.

"Mmkay." She murmured, shuffling her seat.

A long, not-quite-irritated sigh emitted from her captor, who shifted slightly, and to Ia's relief, released her and drew back, kneeling with her seat her ankles. Upright, she smoothed her robes and cloak, which now, Ia saw as a dark, almost shimmering green, almost obsidian.

Drawing her knees to her chin, Ia hugged herself. She couldn't see a door, but neither did she feel afraid. Her tummy chose that moment to gurgle, and her bladder pressed uncomfortably against her. Ia found herself met with a look, one she couldn't quite read. Was that a hint of understanding? Could that be fondness, a warmth that made her heart want to melt? What was this strange feeling? Why did she want to rush to this strange woman, to be enveloped in her arms, yet at the same time, withdraw and keep her at bay? What did she know?

"Shall we freshen up first?" The suggestion was light, almost melodic, and it seemed as if her captor also wanted to scoop her up. Instead, Ia found the woman's hand over her own, even before Ia found herself drawn to her feet. The woman handled herself with such grace, her knees perfectly together, rising in one seamless motion.

Ia squinted at the use of the word 'we'. Images of being scrutinised as she stood about in her underwear, of her chemise tugged and a dress being pulled over her head, of its ties being bound tightly at her sides, of layers of petticoats and stockings filled her mind, and her mouth scrunched.

"Over there," The woman directed, half leading her, half providing a gentle shove.

Ia didn't see it. It just looked like an empty corner. The whole room could be no bigger than four of Gorion's suite while twice as high. Pursing her lips, she scrunched her eye at the corner, then at the woman.

"Push the panel."

What panel? Ia wondered but found herself obediently trotting off. Once there, she found a squared off plank, and pressed her palm to it. A door swung open, and instantly, Ia stepped through into a corridor. Six doors, three on each side, lined the passage, though the end of the hall had no door at all, at least, not that she could discern. Trying the first to her right, Ia discovered a room to meet her immediate needs, and to her great relief, the strange woman didn't stand over her, nor object when she closed the door. Still in her nightgown and her new cloak, Ia found slippers on her feet, slippers she most certainly did not wear to bed. Neither did she recall tugging on socks, which, she might have were the weather especially cold, but never during late summer. Upon closer inspection, she found the cloak held deep inner and outer pockets, pockets that were stuffed with her stockings. Ia made a face. Years of Phlydia kicked in, and without really stopping to think about the absurdity of it, she exchanged the socks for her thigh-high stockings, allowing her nightgown to fall back down to her ankles. Her socks, the fraying white ones, went back into her pocket, and Ia slipped back into her soft, satin slippers and stepped outside.

Met with the sight of a blanket strewn across the floor, porcelain dishes and, to her disgruntlement, what looked like rehydrated algae wound in rolls with small, fat white grains, Ia abandoned any attempt at elegance and flopped down on the edge of the blanket. She found herself presented with a measured look and a lidded dish in a saucer. Ia had never seen that style before, but the markings were similar to the tableware she had seen, cheaply imported from Shou. That distinctive aroma could only be tea, and trying not to sigh or groan, Ia accepted without wanting to appear rude. There was something in the way the woman moved, a precision, a presence, as if each motion was immaculate, calculated and controlled, but not consciously. Now Ia did want to sigh. Everything about her host was perfect, from her posture to her expression, to her body and figure. She made Ia feel fat, ungainly, completely lacking the trim, matured litheness that Ia had yet to attain, might never attain. Ia might have felt mollified if this lady didn't look like her slightly older reflection.

Could she really be her older self travelled to Ia's present from the future? Surely such a thing could not be possible. There was no way this lady could be Ia's twin, the age gap was just too much. Unless… Ia could have been placed in an enchanted sleep as a babe, only to wake years later without aging. Then this lady could most certainly be her twin.

Her host fixed her with a look, silently questioning if she was ready to listen. Ia couldn't help but scrunch up her nose, sigh and sit nicely, setting the tea down. The woman opposite her lifted her own lidded cup, the squat teapot beside it. Ia's tummy decided to gurgle again, this time more loudly, and flushing slightly, Ia found herself presented with a plate of the algae rolls. Hesitantly, she ventured a nibble, then experimented with one of the squared, dried pieces. There was a slight crunch as it broke between her teeth. There was a bowl of dipping sauce, an uninviting rich, dark brown, and another of a clear, light orangey-red. Ia tried both, and uncertain whether or not she liked it, decided she didn't dislike it, so took another, larger bite. The fat, puffed up grains were soft, different to anything she'd ever had. Her mouth felt so dry that she found herself reaching for the tea without intending to. After a couple of careful sips, Ia decided that this, too, wasn't nearly as bad as she was expecting. There were white flowers in it, and it gave off a strange, floral scent, a sweetness she had never encountered.

After she had her fill, Ia was ready to listen, or so her host seemed to observe, as Ia studied her expression. A distance seemed to enter the lady's dark stare, and then, in a far-off voice, she began.


	5. 5

5.

He was a servant of the gods, of one particular god, Bhaal, the dead Lord of Murder. He was younger then, they all were. Rising high in their ranks, he fed his master's profile, adding countless names to his name. When the gods walked the earth, banished from their celestial realm, chaos rampaged throughout the sphere. Even the barrier, upholding the seasons and the night, flickered and grew erratic in places. The holes said to be chasms, windows to the stars, piercing the underbelly of the sphere's outermost layer acted as rifts, portals that saw all manner of unspeakable aberrations in. During those dark days, the gods, now mortal, fought for their survival, and many perished. Before their banishment, before his death, Bhaal foresaw this and set in motion a plan to enact his rebirth.

From the wombs of a score of women, his planted seed spawned scions –

At this point, Ia stopped her. "If you're going to tell me that I'm one of these, then I'm not going to believe you. Aside from you looking just like me, you have no proof and I see little reason to continue this ridiculous tale. I know what you're going to say," She rolled her eyes and deepened her voice, "For this plan to come to fruition, these bearers of the dead lord's essence must themselves perish, and blah blah blah, Bhaal's reborn. Listen, lady, I might be young, but even _I've_ heard the stories. D'you really expect me to believe them? We're in the year 1368 Sphere Reckoning, mages power carriages and freighters that soar across the sky, and we were in a library south of a city so colossal that back before the sphere, it would swallow a whole continent, or so I hear." She folded her arms. "This is ridiculous. Either tell me who you are, or I'm leaving."

Her host crooked a slender eyebrow, "And where will you go, Lian?"

"Somewhere. I don't know. And my name isn't 'Lian', it's Ia. Ee-er, not ee-ah, not eye-ah, not ear, ee-er."

"Ia," The woman repeated, her lips creasing. She was far too amused for Ia's liking.

"Well, now, who are you?"

"Al- _ia_ -na."

"Huh? Oh." She stared, frowned, then bit her lower lip as the corner of her mouth scrunched. "Huh. So, dead god, rebirth."

"The man, known to you as Gorion, was a Bhaalite, Ia."

"Gorion?" She set her tea down before she could splutter, then shook her head. "No, you've got it wrong, lady. Gorion's… Gorion's just too stuffy for that."

"And how well do you really know him?" Those eyes danced with veiled amusement, but Aliana's voice was deathly serious. "We thought we knew him too."

"We? So… that means…" Ia found herself trying to rise to her feet, but at the same time, she couldn't move. No enchantment held her, only Aliana's gaze. Pity loomed, deep, abiding sorrow, bittersweet regret.

"I was one too, Ia. Only," she emphasised with an upright finger, "Gorion was not whom he seemed to be. A man of masks, he belonged to a covert organisation known to the world as the 'Harpers'. Infiltrating our lord's ranks, he learnt many things and became heavily entrusted with the secrets of Bhaal's rebirth. You have to understand, child, that Gorion's rise was less than meteoric; he spent _decades_ earning our master's trust, murdering in his name. Winski Perorate, a colleague and rival, headed the sect in this region. Amelyssan, known in the darker circles of the this part of the sphere as 'The Blackhearted', headed our order. Since you are already aware of the plot," Aliana lifted both eyebrows meaningfully, "There's no need for me to explain."

"Uh, well," Ia shifted uncomfortably, her hands gripping the lid and rim of her teacup. "Tell me anyway?"

"Are you sure? By your own admission, you seem ill-inclined to believe this tale."

"Well…" Ia glanced away, "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you do know what you're talking about. Just… um, please don't murder me?"

The smile was both brilliant and filled with warmth. "Ia, _I'm_ not the one you need to concern yourself with."

"Then who is? No, wait, let me guess: Gorion, and this Winski fellow, and that Blackhearted lady-priestess you mentioned."

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," Aliana demurred, taking a sip of her own tea. "A select number of sites were chosen for the resurrection ritual, the place of sacrifice," Aliana punctuated with a nod. Ia hadn't found the elaboration necessary, but her throat lost all moisture, even dryer than the dehydrated cracker had left it. "These temples were heavily fortified. One, the place where I bore you," she denoted with another sip of her tea, "was set between Beregost and Baldur's Gate. It has since been converted to a hotel, though it still bears a strong resemblance to the citadel we knew."

"I'm sorry, _what_? Did you just say what I think you said?" Ia gaped.

"Yes, Lian, you heard me correctly." Aliana smoothed her robes against her lap. "There'll be time for questions later."

"I, er, wait. You were going to _sacrifice_ me?"

"I thought you didn't believe any of this?" Aliana offered cordially. "But yes, that was our master's order. No, sit down, of course I wasn't going to sacrifice my own daughter. My dear child, murder was the very tenants of our faith, but do you really believe that even our lord was above that? Of course his own priesthood would turn on him. No one wanted his return. Not Perorate, not Amelyssan, and certainly not me. Even Gorion wanted him to stay dead. That might," Aliana mused, balancing her teacup in her palm and running one finger along its rim, "be the only thing we did all agree on."

"How can you be so calm?"

"I wasn't going to let anyone kill you, Lian." This time, there was steel in her voice and gaze; she might have been carved from granite.

"Oh. Well… how did I end up with Gorion, then?"

"I will tell you, if you'll allow me."

"Uh, sorry. I still don't necessarily believe this, you know. But go on. Please."

"It is rather a fantastical tale. Still, it's true. Now, as I was heavily pregnant with you, I was confined to the temple, the one that became the Friendly Arm Inn, a ridiculous name, but what can you do? Gnomes are wont to do as gnomes do."

"Er… the story?"

Aliana shook her head. "Perorate was to reside over the temple I was incarcerated in. I was one of the last, you see. Bhaal spent most of his days wandering, finding various women to seduce and force himself on, and the very last, his own priestesses, were mostly willing."

"Were you?" Ia blurted, then covered her mouth.

Aliana's smile was bittersweet, her eyes sad. "Let's not discuss that, shall we? Instead, let me say that I don't regret _you_."

"Oh." It was Ia's turn to shake her head. "So… he's dead?"

"Yes, quite, quite dead. And not coming back."

"Good. I think. I don't really want to think about him."

"Neither does anyone else." Aliana murmured. "Amelyssan headed the site at the Gate. There was another site, to the south, which she also oversaw. The timing had no bearing, but for the purposes of our lord's return, he wanted to return as swiftly as possible.

"Now, Gorion and I, well, let us say that I never entirely trusted him. He was too smooth, too loyal, and too good at his role, so I cultivated in him, shall we say, a soft spot. Over the years, I allowed myself to warm to him, at least on the surface, and he, being the sort of man he was, warmed to me. Of course whether to gain information, or whether he genuinely felt for me, I cannot say. It hardly matters. What does matter is I was able to slip him the location of our site, and believing he could take me into his confidence, he asked me to disable the wards. Naturally, I implied that I was fearful for my life, hearing the horrific things that might happen, and steered him to protect me. That wasn't my true purpose at all, but we had an accord after a sort. Sufficed to say, right before the ritual, I disabled the wards, or perhaps, it is more accurate to say, I secreted over a number of months a number of highly charged orbs. You are aware of what happens when an orb is overcharged?"

Ia nodded listlessly, then chimed in, "How did you smuggle them?"

"I took them out of the lamps, one at a time."

"And no one saw?"

"Sweetie, I am fully versed in the Art. Of course no one saw."

"Oh, okay."

"Well, Gorion and his lackeys stormed the temple on the night of the ritual as that's when the children were gathered. The children from this region, that is. Oh, there was a lot of fighting, and Winski scurried away. I gave birth to you on that night, feigned my own death through various and excessive invocations I won't bore you with, but before I could snatch you up, Gorion got to you first. He instantly recognised you as mine, and, I suppose to be fair to him, you were the only new-born around, and off he carted you to only the remainder of the gods knew where. Since then, I spent my days searching for you. For him to have placed you so close to the Friendly Arm Inn was… well, hiding in plain sight. I never imagined he would be so close by. Thay, Sembia, Luskan, Neverwinter, perhaps, even Chult, but Candlekeep, a stone's throw away?" Aliana sighed. "But then I found you."

"And here we are?" Ia squinted, wringing her hands in her lap.

"And here we are. There's a little more to it, if you're not too tired to hear it."

"Uh… let me guess, it involves this Winski fellow."

"That would be correct. Well, Winski had his own choice, a child he claimed, born several years earlier. During Gorion's incursion, of which the boy was there to see, the first step to his ascension, he escaped, and Winski, rather than face Gorion, went after his candidate instead. You see, you were Gorion's candidate."

"Me?! …A god? Are you crazy?"

"Well, perhaps. But that's another conversation." With another sip, Aliana continued. "Years later, I found that Winski, who I lost track of, was also operating in Baldur's Gate. It seems he's drawn to the other site, that temple in the Undercity."

"Wait… now you're talking in presence tense."

"Why yes, I am. I assume you're able to figure out the rest, Lian?"

"Next you'll tell me that Winski's candidate didn't die, but survived, and now he's hunting down and killing those of us who didn't die, so Winski can resume the ritual and he can ascend."

"See, I knew you were a smart girl," Aliana murmured. "That's about right, yes. Things in the south didn't go exactly as planned either. I wasn't there, but apparently, there was some sort of uprising. A whole slew of priests got slaughtered, the children escaped, and now, they're all your age or older. I suppose it's possible Bhaal managed to seed a couple more after me, but not longer after, he met his end."

"You know, I don't really think I like this story." Ia cleared her throat. "I think that maybe, I'd like to go home."

"I'm sure you would, but I'm afraid that really isn't possible. You see, that little boy is now a man, and he's the heir apparent of Reiltar Anchev."

"Who?"

"Reiltar Anchev."

"Who?"

"The director of the Iron Throne."

"The what now?"

"Really, Lian?"

"What?" She folded her arms. "It's not my fault I don't know."

"All those books…"

"It's not like a single one of them is _current_."

"Well, still. The Iron Throne is a megacorporation that operates out of Sembia. It's branch in Baldur's Gate deals primarily in…"

"Iron. I got that much." Ia's arms tightened.

"They also deal in other things, such as mercenaries. The shipping lanes are in somewhat of a state right now, piracy and so on. There's also a lack of fundamental materials required for maintaining and creating the orbs."

"Let me guess. Iron."

Aliana smiled. "There's something about the crystalline structure that resonates."

Ia tried and failed not to roll her eyes. "I _know_."

"The other children in the south are also amassing armies and trying to kill each other. Now I finally learnt where you were, and the race to the throne, Bhaal's throne that is, has resumed, I decided I should remove you since Sarevok Anchev, that's Reiltar's heir, is due to visit Candlekeep in just over a tenday."

"Oh."

"Are you quite certain you want to return home?"

"Um… I'd rather not." Ia wet her mouth. "I still don't believe all this, but uh, I've always wanted to see the world. Walk through the forests, swim in the sea."

"I'd advise you don't. The seas are polluted and filled with vicious marine life that will devour you as soon as look at you, and the forests are a refuge of bandits, wolves and other less savoury castoffs that would also devour you as soon as look at you, or worse."

"Gee, thanks." Ia glowered. "So where exactly are you intending to take me, because I'm not planning on killing anyone."

"If you're smart, you'll stay out of the way." Aliana answered primly, smoothing her lap again. "Amelyssan intends to take the throne for herself. The last I heard, she shepherded some of the more gullible children to the city of Saradush and then let the others know."

"Others?"

"Oh, yes. There are six others who have taken the lead for the running, not including Sarevok of course. One belongs to the 'Blue Dragon Syndicate', a genetically mutated horror created during the days of Netheril's experiments, and his ancestors subsequently experimented on. I've heard that he's covered in tattoos, can crack a skull between his forearm and bicep, and he looks like he's covered in shimmering scales. There's also one becoming to the 'Fire Giant' clan. It's best not to ask. Another, who no one knows anything about, operates out of the desert, using teams of assassins to carry out his or her orders. It's also possible that the desert dweller is in fact someone other than one of the children, who simply intends to eliminate everyone associated with Bhaal."

"Wonderful." Ia managed, her mouth drying again.

"There's a pointy eared knife-fighter who takes it upon herself to infiltrate and slaughter those in her way. She doesn't restrict herself to murdering Bhaal's bastards. Oh, I don't mean to upset you."

"Thanks…"

"And then there's that denizen of the underground. You're aware the Sphere has layers? Good. So that's what I've gleaned."

"You said there were six. That's only five."

"Oh. I always forget about him. He's just… forgettable. He's a self-styled warlord, took over Saradush, big, green, his great grandmother probably crawled out of the sewer."

"Uh…"

"I know, Bhaal had no taste. I almost can't believe I ever slept with–"

"Okay, gross. Even if you're not my mother, seriously? Ew." Ia finally broke through years of etiquette and endless lectures on how to speak.

"I suppose it is." Aliana shrugged to herself, then cast one of _those_ looks. "Have you ever tried it?"

"Seriously? We're seriously having this conversation? Also, no! And geez, we've known each other, what? And you're already asking me?" Ia scrubbed cheeks, mouth open as she tried to purge the thought from her mind.

"It's important." Nonplussed, Aliana continued. "The head of the Blue Dragon syndicate has a son."

"Huh? How old is he?"

"Thirty, maybe less."

"The son's thirty?"

"Around that, yes." Aliana shrugged. "They'll probably kill each other if they're the last two standing."

"Oh."

Aliana smiled brightly, "But that's not something you need to worry about."

"I guess… just… ugh. Where are we going?"

"I haven't decided, but I was thinking somewhere cold. Have you ever visited Neverwinter?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I've never so much as stepped foot outside Candlekeep." Ia set her chin, trying not to scream. "You really aren't helping your case, you know. You're just so… so…"

Aliana levelled her with a look.

"Your thoughts are like the clouds!"

"I suppose they are." A smile lit the older woman's face. "Was there anything else you wanted to ask?"

"Well, yes," Ia confessed, but sighed. "Can we… talk later? I kind of want to be alone right now."

Rising to her feet, Aliana laid a hand on Ia's shoulder. "Of course, Lian. Just call out my name, and I'll be there."

"Where will you be?"

"Upper deck."

"Where _are_ we?"

"Freighter, headed for Baldur's Gate."

" _Are you insane?!_ " Ia shrieked.

"I thought you didn't believe in any of this?" Aliana sniffed slightly and shook out her robes.

" _What about the pirates and bandits_?"

"What about them?"

Ia just stared, at a loss for words.

"Oh, sweetheart, you think that some school of bandits would be enough to overcome us?"

"…You call a band of bandits a 'school'?"

Aliana shrugged.

"And isn't Baldur's Gate where _Sarevok_ is?" Ia recovered.

"It's not like I'm taking you to the Iron Throne. Although, maybe I should. I didn't think to look for you in Candlekeep, so I doubt Sarevok would think to look for you inside his own regional corporate headquarters."

"I… can you just go? Please?" Ia sank back, staring. Her tea now completely cold, she just leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Being inside a freighter would explain all this space, but why was it panelled with wood? She guessed it didn't matter. There was probably some reason. Also, her mind recoiled, what had just happened?

Well that was that, life did hold surprises. Ia screamed with all she had, and once she finally tired herself out, screamed some more, and then, sipped her tea, screwed up her face, and lay down for a nap. Hopefully, she'd wake up and find herself back in her bed. Flying hamsters the size of houses made more sense than this, or so she told herself.


	6. 6

6.

After lying on the floor for what seemed like hours, Ia sighed and called out the lady's name. A moment later, she stepped out from behind Ia. Without acknowledgement, without even flinching, Ia sprawled onto her belly, propping herself up with her elbows. For all Aliana's explanations, one burning question remained: "How did you find out where I was?"

"I started a newspaper." Aliana returned as if she were discussing the weather, resuming her seat on the blanket, her back ramrod straight. It was as if she never left.

"You just started a newspaper?" Incredulity coloured Ia.

"I'm a mage, aren't I? I took a post part-time charging orbs for freight runs."

"But how did you know what to write?"

"I've been around." Aliana shrugged. "I knew what Gorion liked to read, and so I focused on that. It took a while, but I built up a network of informants, wrote puff pieces and started paying aspiring journalists to write more seriously. They investigated all the sites I steered them to, and naturally, I have a list of subscribers. I checked out each one, and there he was, in Candlekeep."

"He couldn't have used his real name… and how did you know he'd read it?"

"He didn't and I didn't, but I had a hunch." Aliana shrugged again, smiled, and tweaked Ia's nose. "Sometimes you just have to take a chance, love."

"Don't do that and don't call me that." She jerked back, glaring and rubbing her nose. "But how did you _know_?"

"I figured that even if he didn't read it, I'd use my journalists to find him sooner or later. Fortunately for us, I found you when I did. Didn't you wonder how I knew so much about the other Bhaalspawn?"

"'Bhaalspawn'?"

"It's a term I coined. Makes for scintillating reading, you know. The 'Wars of the Bhaalspawn'."

"Wait… you knew they'd fall for it. Are you leading them into a trap?"

"Well, honey, which god did you think I was following? Although, I suppose 'murder' is more a philosophical concept that happened to take on a personification in the form of Bhaal than an actual person. It doesn't have to be physical either. You can murder joy, for example."

"I…" Ia just shook her head. "I'm really starting to wonder about you."

"Yes, I suppose you are. As to your question, Bhaalspawn are big news in the south. Their armies have caused many to flee in terror."

"Didn't you ever think that maybe someone would find out who you were?"

"Maybe, but it's not like I was using my name. I am rather adept at illusion and misdirection."

"I don't know how you can be so focused when you're all over the place."

"It's a gift." She smiled.

"But still, how did you find out who they were?"

"It helped that most of them declared themselves. A great many flocked to Amelyssan's banner, and even though it's been years, I remembered Sarevok. Those cold, golden eyes haven't changed. Well, maybe they've gotten worse. But I recognised them the instant I saw them. I'm a bit surprised he has such high publicity."

"What will we do about it?" Trying to hold back the rising note of panic took a greater effort than Ia could muster. The urge to throw herself face forward and allow her hair to be stroked rose up and almost overwhelmed her, but she survived this long without a mother. Ia wasn't entirely sure what Phlydia could be construed as, but Ia had never considered her a mother, surrogate or otherwise.

"Well, I already published that Sarevok's a Bhaalspawn, so he'll either deny the scandalous rumours or he'll declare himself." As nonplussed as before, Aliana'a eyes held a kindly light.

"Won't he know it's you?"

"No, but even if he figures it out, it's too late. The damage's done. No one's seen my face, sweetie. I've not been as careless as you think."

"No one?"

"Not recently. Amelyssan knows what I look like, Sarevok may remember, Winski and Gorion will certainly remember, but few others will."

"Because you killed them?" Ia glared at Aliana, who offered another shrug.

"I have my ways, but I try not to leave bodies behind. Bodies leave a trail, and questions. And no, disposing of a body is a lot of work, my dear. It's better to simply cast my spells, shifting my appearance and lulling their minds. No one knows where we are, not even you. Please don't worry your pretty little head over this. I may not have quite decided just where we're going, but we are going. There are more enchantments in this room than I know what to do with." A soft chuckle escaped the woman's lips. "And try not to lose that cloak, either. It's warded to keep you safe. It'll need charging though."

Slowly, unwillingly, Ia nodded. "Thank you."

Aliana's warmth lit her whole face. "You're welcome, Lian."

"So… what happens after this? You know, when there's only one left."

"Assuming the other realms don't surround and slaughter the victor, he or she will have to chase us. All that time, assassins will be dogging his or her step. While it is possible he or she might carve out a realm, I doubt it will last. Our best bet is to simply keep moving. But once you're the only one alive, well, if you want, I can perform the ritual. It doesn't have to be immediate either. I'll teach it to you, so if you want to live a mortal life, you may. Of course, you might be killed too, even if you are the last, so you'd probably be better off assuming the mantel of your sire." Aliana tilted her head, as if viewing her from a whole new light. "It doesn't really suit you though."

"What doesn't?" Ia stared.

"You being a god."

"Oh." She sighed. "I guess not. But I mean, someone has to, don't they?"

"Do they?" Aliana mused. "Sometimes I wonder. Where would we be without our gods. Would we be better off? Bhaal was a monster. Before his ascension, he was a thief. He and two other brigands seized their thrones, and many of their colleagues are no better. They are divinities in their might, not their morality." She pursed her lips. "Or so I've come to believe. Serving a monster does that. I think that power only magnifies their core personality. They simply embody the concept that we mortals worship, a face and voice to it, an avatar if you will."

"So what you're saying is… if I became a god, I would still be me, only more powerful?"

"Your perception would shift, and there would be other rules, rules that you are not bound to as a mortal, but the rules that apply to you now would break too. There are many enemies out there, amongst the gods, in the hells, from other, further planes. Your lifeforce would be bound to mortal belief. Were peace to reign, then you would begin to wane. So Bhaal stirred up chaos, encouraged assassins. What he failed to grasp was whenever there is violence, even in thought, there is murder. On the planes, thought, through belief, becomes reality. So, my child, if you were to extend your reach beyond the Sphere, beyond the mortals that inhabit this prime, and step further out into the planes, you would find things are very different. But," Aliana's lips tugged, her brow knitting, "by its very nature, were you to inhabit murder, sooner or later, you too, would fall prey to it. The more you indulge in it, the more you become it, and murder, by its very essence, betrays. As a face, a voice, an avatar for this abstract, you, like your predecessor, would be murdered. How else could it exist?"

Ia gaped, her mouth hanging open, then she curtly shook her head. "So what you're saying I should do is…?"

"Stay out of it, Lian. Either change what it is, and in so doing, murder _it_ , and transform it to something new, or run and don't look back. Otherwise, it'll consume you, and once you're dead, nothing will bring you back."

For several long moments, Ia considered this, then her own brow furrowed. "What you said about the planes. If we were to go there, couldn't we bring Bhaal back?"

"Hmm. There's an interesting thought. I don't know why you'd want to, but we might, if we had enough power. But that kind of thing would take more than even you, my love. Then again, you have murder's essence in you, so maybe you could. Why?"

She let her shoulders lift and drop. "Just wondering, really. If he could be brought back, could I?"

"Perhaps. The Astral Plane is filled with the bloated, floating corpses of dead gods. They are as islands, most long forgotten. There are those who feed off them. Since Bhaal was mortal when he died, I doubt his corpse is up there, so you wouldn't even have that."

"And me? What happens to me if I die?"

"You break apart, into golden dust, and all that you are is gone and lost."

Ia shuddered. "Why are they so obsessed with taking Bhaal's place?"

"Murder has consumed them. In here, in here." Aliana tapped her head and heart. "You want to live; you don't want to kill, you don't want to destroy, and the promise of power hasn't gnawed its way through you. Most of the Bhaalspawn are now just shadows of their father, masks for murder's essence, just as Bhaal became a mask, enslaved to its nature as its nature became his own."

"You make it sound so simple…"

"It is."

"But you said Winski made this Sarevok as his protégé. Did Sarevok ever have a choice?"

"While there is something to be said for nature versus nurture, Sarevok still embraced his master's dark gifts. Maybe he resisted, but he broke."

"…What if I break?" Ia studied the floor in front of her, then lifted her gaze. "I don't want to become what you're describing."

"So murder Murder. Murder it by being you and not becoming its slave."

"Is it really so easy?"

"Do you want to kill?"

Ia shook her head, "If it's me or them though…"

"But do you want it?"

"No."

"So don't meditate on it. Don't think about how to kill them. You've managed for this long. Don't give in. Don't dwell in it. Your half siblings did and now all they can envision is brutal slaughter, a field of dead. It isn't even about glory any more. They just love to kill, and killing each other is all they dream of."

Ia shuddered.

"As long as you keep being repulsed, you'll be okay." Aliana smiled, leaned in and kissed her cheek gently. "Dream of swimming in the ocean, of wandering in the forest. Dream of the simple wonders of life, and keep on dreaming of living. As long as you're able to dwell in life, you're not basking in death, and murder has no hold on you."

Slowly, Ia nodded. It made sense, and death, anyone's death, wasn't anything she wanted. A small murmur within challenged this. What if someone hurt the ones she loved? Wouldn't she want revenge? What if she had the choice between saving a city and killing one person, not in a duel, but from afar, before that person could act? What if, by not acting, she was condemning trillions to their deaths? Was that still murder?

Where were these questions coming from? So, rather than bottle them up, as she would have not three days ago, she asked Aliana. This launched a philosophical debate on the nature of murder, just killing, and lawful actions, and what determined the law. Aliana ended it by saying that if the law permitted assassination, then it was no longer murder, for murder was, by its definition, unlawful killing. But then, Ia wondered, who set the law? Those with power, Aliana responded dryly, which explained how the gods were able to rule. As long as they could enforce their laws, with near absolute authority or partial authority, their laws were living. Without the will and ability to back it, those laws faded, dying, and lost their meaning and purpose. Only if laws were lived did they hold any function at all, at least, according to how Aliana saw it. Of course, there were conflicting laws, for, she reasoned, if they were to go to the planes and will strongly enough that their will could not alter reality, they could conceivably create a paradox. Could such a paradox exist, or would it tear the planes asunder? She wasn't sure, and Ia saw no reason to ever put this theory to the test. Contradictions, Aliana concluded, existed, because mortals were contradictory creatures. Whether concepts existed before mortals, and mortals simply discovered them, or if mortals gave form to them through belief did not truly matter; what mattered was as long as mortals influenced the laws, the planes and concepts, there would be contradictions.

The only exception to this, that Aliana could conceive, was if, somehow, there was some absolute power, a being so supreme that it remained unaltered by mortals, but such a being would be so aloof, so removed that mortals could never relate to it, for, as everyone knew, mortals were flawed. For such a theoretical being to relate to mortals, it would have to assume a flawless avatar, but that, too, would be removed, unless, it was somehow inflicted with mortal frailties. Still, even that would be a paradox, a contradiction, so Aliana could not see how such a thing was possible.

Even so, she admitted, there was a lot that she did not understand, and despite spending decades learning the Art, her mastery of it was limited, because she too, was limited. Even the gods, as they had already established, were limited. Perhaps, she wondered, it was the fate of everything to die, and the realms themselves would also perish, in spite of the planes supposedly being infinite and eternal. Perhaps someone, somewhere, would garner enough belief and create a cataclysm, turning belief against the planes themselves and capping their infinite nature and thereby bringing ruin to them.

Ia had nothing to say to this, but found herself gawking at the mere notion. For Aliana to speak so freely, so matter-of-factly, almost to the point of being flippant stunned her. But then the older woman's lips quirked, and once again, she reminded Ia of her dead lord's profile. For an acolyte of murder to ponder if the planes themselves could be murdered should not come as any surprise to her, yet still, Ia could only boggle at this. Instead, she focused on things of substance, like the beauty and majesty of the forests, the roar of the waves and the great depths of the sea. What mattered was she was alive right then, that she finally had a mother, no matter how strange a lady she might be.


End file.
